


I'd suffer hell if you'd tell me (what you'd do to me tonight)

by Bouncey



Series: Happiness and Plenty [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bondage, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff and Smut, Gentle Dom Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, God!Jaskier, Human Sacrifice, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Is Geralt being drugged and enchanted? A little. Is he into it? Yes., It's Not A Witcher Fic Without Gratuitous Bathing, Jaskier's Blatant Witcher Kink, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Offering!Geralt, Ritual Sex, Samhain, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Magic, Smut, Sub Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, The Magical Powers of Chamomile, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:07:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25061353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bouncey/pseuds/Bouncey
Summary: When the Witcher finally woke up, he drew several conclusions rather quickly:1) His wrists and ankles had been shackled while he was unconscious.2) Those shackles were holding him spread-eagled across a very comfortable goose-down mattress.3) The runes carved into the manacles left him relatively incapacitated; not even a Witcher could break through such a strong pacification spell.4) His captors had removed everything but his smallclothes and covered him back up with an incredibly soft blanket.“Hmm.”orGeralt is captured by the strangest religious order he's ever encountered and offered up as a "human" sacrifice to their God of Happiness, who happens to look and sound exactly like Jaskier...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Happiness and Plenty [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1830604
Comments: 44
Kudos: 785





	I'd suffer hell if you'd tell me (what you'd do to me tonight)

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all voted on which prompt I should write next and this was the winner by a LONG SHOT. Please note that I've only ever written two or three smut scenes in my life (listen, I'm shy) so if this is a little heavy on the foreplay that's my bad. I'll try again soon!
> 
> Otherwise, please enjoy this smutty, smutty disaster! 
> 
> (Title from Hozier's "Dinner and Diatribes")

When the Witcher finally woke up, he drew several conclusions rather quickly:

  1. His wrists and ankles had been shackled while he was unconscious.
  2. Those shackles were holding him spread-eagled across a _very_ comfortable goose-down mattress.
  3. The runes carved into the manacles left him relatively incapacitated; not even a Witcher could break through such a strong pacification spell.
  4. His captors had removed everything but his smallclothes and covered him back up with an incredibly soft blanket.



“Hmm.” 

_ Not an ideal situation to find yourself in, Witcher,  _ Geralt thought. He tried hard to think of what he’d been doing before he fell unconscious but couldn’t recall any details.  _ Complicated magic is at work here. Whoever captured me went through the trouble of abducting me quietly and fashioning Witcher-proof restraints, so they must be after something only  _ I  _ can procure. Or information that only I have.  _ If this was a way of holding him still while they arranged a job, that wouldn’t be too bad. If this was the world’s strangest preamble to torture, well, Witchers did not often have a reason to lay on plush goose-feather beds and Geralt might as well enjoy it while he could. 

When at last the door to his oddly comfortable prison creaked open, Geralt snapped his head up to see who came through. He had been expecting a cruel-looking man carrying a tray of heinous torture devices so he was caught off-guard when a young woman entered the room with a glass of water in her hand and a benign smile on her face. “Ah, you’re awake! Good morning, Sir Witcher. I’m sorry that we had to keep you in such a state, but we can’t risk you escaping before the Ritual. That would be highly unfortunate.”

Geralt remained silent, observing the woman as she moved gracefully through the room. Almost  _ too  _ gracefully. When she grew closer to his bedside, the Witcher realized that she carried the faintest scent of magic on her skin. The bitter floral notes of it congealed against his palate but for some reason his medallion remained inactive. The stranger’s eyes were a deep green and her thick chestnut hair was pulled into a no-nonsense braid down her back. The flowing purple robe she wore was made of gossamer-like material and embroidered along the hem with unusual but somewhat familiar letters and sigils. Even finer than the petals of a flower. He wrinkled his brow in confusion.

“You must be curious as to your purpose here, Sir Witcher.”

“Hm. You mentioned a ritual.”

“You have been chosen to become this year’s sacrifice to our most gracious and caring Master during the Samhain Rites.”

“Which Master is that?” he queried.

“Have a drink of water and then I will explain,” she replied. He nodded his assent and allowed her to support his head enough for him to take a sip of water. She held his head at the right angle for as long as it took him to finish the glass with a sigh. “Now, for an introduction to my Master. And your purpose here in the Temple.”

“Temple?”

“Aye. Welcome to the Temple of Joy, Witcher. We live here in this secluded corner of the world, protected by our Master, His Most Joyful, the God of Happiness and Plenty.”

“Why does the God of Happiness and  _ Plenty _ require a sacrifice?”

“That is his way. One can be happy alone, but to bring happiness to another is sacred. Shared happiness is the truest form and our Master needs it to survive. We, his acolytes and worshipers, are more than happy to provide sustenance for him one time a year. This year, Sir Witcher, you are to be given the honor of pleasing him.”

Geralt wasn’t sure he liked where this was going.

The girl approached the bed and gently moved a strand of stray hair from the Witcher’s forehead. He flinched away from the touch and struggled briefly against the chains that held him in place; it was no use. All it did was dislodge the blanket, which she calmly moved back into place. Even his ‘scary face’ wasn’t working. “He provides good weather for our crops and keeps our borders closed against evil spirits and monsters. He only asks one thing in return, a sacrifice every year on the night of Samhain. If we complete the Ritual we are granted with a bountiful harvest in the following year. If it is  _ very  _ good then he returns in the spring to sing for us and deliver us gifts from his many travels.”

Geralt knew he had to find a way out of this. Maybe he could break the chains and escape in the night. Maybe he could use  _ Axii _ to make her release him or  _ Aard _ to blast his way out. He just had to bide his time. “Have you ever seen your God of Joy?”

“Yes, and he is rather handsome.”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t try using your spells on us either, Sir Witcher. I see that look in your eye. He told us about your signs many years ago, and we have trained ourselves to be immune.”

“Wh-”

“I am not a fool, Sir Witcher. I will come back later with the others to bathe and dress you. Tonight, for the first time in nearly a century, a full harvest moon will rise on Samhain; tonight our sacred Rites will be doubly powerful.” 

The woman turned to leave, but Geralt still had two burning questions. Questions that had been lingering at the edge of his consciousness: “How did you capture me? How can you restrain me so easily?”

“It was all in the Book.”

“The Book?”

“His Most Joyful gifted it to us three autumns ago when we provided him with a rather impressive sacrifice. It contains many stories and facts about monsters, potions, and Witchers. We are allowed to gather herbs for the potions but we are not allowed to ingest them, for His Most Joyful has warned us that they would result in our painful deaths. He is most gracious.”

“So all you do at this temple is farm and make potions for a god who demands sacrifices?”

“He is good to us,” she snapped, glaring now. Geralt tried to hide the anxiety brewing inside him. If they could keep him here, immobilized and vulnerable like this, there must be other dangerous information about his kind in the Book, whatever it was. “He teaches us and cares for us. He sends us healers when we are ill and money when we need supplies. He gifts us with musical instruments and teaches us to use them. All he asks for is  _ one  _ show of faith in return. You will be our  _ most  _ pleasing offering to him yet.”

The tone of her final statement revealed that it was both a promise and a threat. Geralt kept his mouth shut this time and watched her sweep angrily from the room, slamming the heavy wooden door closed behind her. He relaxed his muscles, letting the chains that connected him to the bed-frame go slightly lax. The Witcher closed his eyes and slipped into a light meditative state. Whatever they were planning on doing to him during this strange Ritual, the Witcher was going to fight back. For that he would need strength and resilience. Nothing to do now but rest his anxious mind and wait.

* * *

“Lily, Peony, you set up the bath over there in the corner. Rose, you find our Master’s favorite hair soap and scented balm,” the woman from before ordered, bustling into the room with several other young women at her heels. Two of them had a large wooden bathing tub between them and yet another was carrying a tray covered with vials and potions. The leader’s dress was still the same purple gossamer but the others wore simple pink cotton slips, cinched at the waist with brown leather belts.  _ Ah, acolytes and a priestess. A high priestess, perhaps?  _

“Won’t those scents overwhelm him?” a pale, slim girl (Rose, apparently) asked, gesturing to Geralt. 

“You’re right, I hadn’t considered a Witcher’s senses. Well done, Rose. Use the chamomile soap instead; the Book speaks of its power to gentle Witchers.”

_ Chamomile’s power to gentle Witchers?  _ This Book must have acted as their holy scripture because they referenced it constantly as they barked orders and suggestions to each other. While Geralt listened to their chatter and tried to absorb some of it, buckets of warm water were being brought into the room and poured into the tub. One of the acolytes busied herself with pouring in measured amounts of softly fragrant oils, flower petals, and powdered herbs from the tray. 

To Geralt, the precise way she measured things reminded him of Yennefer when she brewed... _ ah fuck, they’re making a potion big enough for me to bathe in. Dammit all to hells.  _ A heady cloud of interwoven smells suddenly overwhelmed the Witcher, pinning him back against the mattress with their force. He felt very warm and sleepy as the scents of lavender, maypop, and valerian leaves invaded his nose and settled against his tongue. __

_ They’re lulling me to sleep on purpose.  _ He tried to fight against the creeping languor and stay alert but the scents invaded his space from every direction and sapped his ability to think straight. The Priestess was -she was-  _ she was using  _ Igni  _ to get the bathwater steaming.  _ His vision clouded at the edges and his breathing slowed even more than usual as the warm mist seeped into his skin and filled his lungs. The brew, whatever it was, had put him in a strange state.

Geralt’s mind felt very far away from his body as his limbs were jostled from their spread-eagled position. The acolytes released his wrists and ankles from the iron cuffs, moving in tandem to rub the circulation back into his limbs.  _ That feels nice,  _ he smiled.  _ Why the fuck am I smiling?  _

Once the tingling in his hands subsided and he felt slightly more aware of himself, the young women jostled him into a sitting position on the edge of the mattress. _ Why can’t I seem to resist?  _ He watched with heavily-lidded eyes as one particularly swift girl bound his hands, wrists together - _ aw, like they’re kissing-  _ with a strip of deep blue silk. The knots were intricate, folding over and around each other in a way that his large fingers could never hope to undo. The color of the silk had distracted him, anyway.  _ Jaskier would like this color,  _ Geralt mused in his drowsy state.  _ Jaskier likes pretty things.  _

“Into the bath,” the priestess ordered. Geralt stood automatically, wobbly legs responding to the command as if this woman was  _ Vesemir.  _ The look in her eyes was similar enough. 

Rose smiled shyly and led him across the room by his bound hands, supporting his arm as he stepped into the tub and sank into the deliciously hot water. With a hazy glance downward, the Witcher was happy to realize that his smallclothes had been left intact so far. He couldn’t really be bothered about the state of his modesty  _ at the moment,  _ but some small part of his functioning brain was immensely relieved that a level of privacy had been afforded to him. 

“Wh’s all t’is for?” he slurred.

“We’re preparing you for the Ritual. His Most Joyful likes it when his offerings smell clean and feel soft.”

“Although there is very little softness to you, Witcher.”

“S’ry, lady.”

“Do all Witchers have yellow eyes like a cat?” a particularly young acolyte asked. The priestess shot her a disapproving glare but Geralt’s head lolled in her direction anyway.

“No.”

“So you are very rare?”

“Yes. V’r rare.”

“Our Master will be even more pleased, then.”

“Why?” Geralt couldn’t stop himself from asking. He couldn’t stop himself from answering their questions, either. His mind was a fog of  _ warm  _ and  _ comfortable  _ and  _ sleepy.  _ Sensations registered before thought and he felt incredibly pliant beneath their caring hands. He wondered why they weren’t so affected;  _ maybe this is just a Witcher thing. Maybe the Book really is a guide for catching and incapacitating me and my kind. Oh well.  _ The sensory-overwhelming power of the bath/potion was even stronger now that he was submerged and he was in an unusually peaceful and pleasant mood.

This bath smelled almost as nice as the ones Jaskier fixed for him whenever possible. Only those were much better because the bard was there. Touching him. Washing his hair. Bandaging his wounds. Geralt released a low groan, mind filled with warm thoughts of his dear friend.  _ Friend. No, that’s wrong. Jaskier means more to me than any simple friend. Mousesack is a friend. Jaskier is my  _ sweet bard.  _ My favorite person on the Continent.  _

The girls’ movement had stopped at the sound of Geralt’s groan, their eyes fixed on the subdued monster before them. “He’s reacting even more strongly to these herbs than our Master’s instruction suggested. Perhaps we used too much?”

“I followed the recipe exactly as it was written. I measured everything three times. It must be his tolerance.”

“Why would his tolerance be so low?”

“Like his hair and his eyes, it must be part of the mutations.”

“M’eyes. Erl’er you said  _ rare _ ...Why?”

“His Most Joyful favors golden-eyed Witchers above all other creatures. To have found one by chance on the eve of Samhain well,” the priestess clapped her hands together beneath her chin and sighed wistfully. “We have been truly blessed.”

_ Their god favors Witchers with golden eyes? Wha-?  _ Geralt couldn’t even bring himself to complete the thought. He was too drowsy and confused. There were two pairs of hands carding through his hair and another two massaging a lightly scented oil into the skin of his shoulders and arms. Rose’s voice piped up: “Should we add some kohl, Lavender?”

The priestess grasped Geralt’s jaw and tilted his head back and forth, inspecting his features. 

He let her.

“It wouldn’t hurt, certainly. Make sure to pull the top half of his hair up and leave the bottom layer loose. Our Master doesn’t like hair in their eyes but he does like playing with it. Especially if it’s long like this.”

“Yes, Lavender.”

“Flo’ers,” Geralt slurred happily. He glanced around the room, making eye contact with several blushing maidens. “Dandl’ons?”

“Dandelion is a forbidden title. They are the Master’s sacred flowers. But yes, Witcher, we are all called by flower names.”

“Pretty.”

“Thank you, Sir Witcher,” she said, with all the patience of an overpaid nanny. “Now will you behave while we finish getting you ready for His Most Joyful?”

Geralt didn’t see why not. He smiled, tugging his wrists apart just to feel the silk tighten against them.  _ That shouldn’t be as comforting as it is.  _ “Mhm.”

Lavender barked out a short series of orders that he didn’t have the wherewithal to catch before turning and leaving the small chamber. The Witcher watched her go and took a deep breath, accidentally dosing himself with the herbal steam again. The bath water was warm and relaxing and as the girls fussed with his hair and applied kohl around his amber eyes, Geralt felt almost  _ pampered.  _

After a short while, Lavender returned carrying a strangely shaped bundle in her hands. “Wha’s tha?”

“Your outfit.”

“Hmm.”

“Get him out and dry him off. Evening is close and we have to finish getting him ready.”

“Yes Lavender,” the acolytes replied in tandem.

Geralt began to panic a little, realizing that this may be the last bath of his overly-long life. He’d never gotten to tell Jaskier about how he felt. He never got to apologize for all the times he’d said to fuck off or shut up. His heart clenched in his chest, even as his body obeyed the Priestess’s orders. 

A soft towel was used to pat his skin dry and when the women deemed him acceptably clean, Lavender guided him to stand in front of a full-length mirror. Even though he couldn’t control his enhanced eyesight as well as usual, he knew that he looked rather  _ striking  _ for a mutant. 

The acolytes had washed the dust and grime from his silver-white hair and pulled it back into a severe half-ponytail; the tail of which was wrapped into a tight topknot. Two short, decorative wooden sticks kept the bun in place. Dark lines of kohl rimmed his eyes and his golden irises appeared to flicker like fire in the light of the setting sun.  _ The setting sun.  _ A spike of panic raced through Geralt once again.

“Hold still now, Witcher, we must dress you quickly. It’s nearly time for the Ritual to begin.”

Geralt’s body obeyed Lavender’s commands against his will. Every instinct that had been beaten into him since childhood was screaming for the Witcher to  _ run, fight, flee;  _ but his mind was so  _ foggy  _ and the feeling of the tight silk looped and knotted against his wrists was so  _ perfect.  _ As the Witcher fought against his own mind, Lavender unwrapped the bundle of clothes she’d gone in search of earlier.

A long piece of clean white cloth was pulled forth and pleated intricately around Geralt’s waist. She tied the makeshift garment closed over his left shoulder to form a loose chiton. A plain silver cuff was fastened over his upper arm, somehow made as if to fit _him._ The ensemble was rather plain, but the stark white of the linen and the soft glint of the silver band looked pretty against the Witcher’s slightly tanned skin.  _ Pretty,  _ Geralt thought again,  _ Jaskier likes pretty things.  _

His damp smallclothes were shuffled off of him by two blushing acolytes; their eyes remaining politely turned away until the whole affair was over. Geralt stood in front of the mirror for a moment longer, allowing himself to gaze into the eyes of the strange animal before him.  _ Goodbye, Jaskier. At least I’ll go to my doom looking somewhat presentable. You’d be proud of me for that.  _

Once he’d been bathed and dressed, Lavender sat him on the edge of the bed. “Stay here, Witcher. Rose will sit with you until it is time for the Samhain Rites to begin.”

“Yes, La'nder.”

“Such an obedient Witcher,” she crooned, suddenly slipping a piece of black material over his eyes. _A blindfold. I should fight back._ He gave a weak wriggle against Rose’s gently restraining grip. Lavender grabbed his jaw again and he went lax against the touch. “Behave. You will bring us many blessings this year. Rose, do you have the herbs?”

“Yes, Lavender.”

“Prepare him, then. It is nearly time. Our Master will be arriving soon.”

“Of course, Lavender. I will watch the moon and be ready when it’s time.”

Geralt heard the priestess’s firm footsteps leave the room, turn left, and go down two short flights of stairs. He listened to Rose shuffle something in her lap, caught a whiff of sweetness, and felt a gentle hand touch his shoulder. “Would you like to try some of the magic we’ve learned for ourselves?”

“Y’r Master di’n’t teach you th’s?”

“No, but he brought it to us once or twice. We learned to grow it on our own; this magic comes from the earth herself. You’ll like it. It makes the Ritual more interesting.”

_ Perhaps she is giving me this to dull the pain of execution. Or torture. What are these Rites going to entail? Lavender mentioned shared happiness but... _ He agreed to try the strange herbs, afraid of the unknown Ritual that loomed before him. The young woman held a strange glass stem to his mouth and he breathed it in and out like a puff of hookah smoke. “No, Witcher. Hold it for a moment. Like this, listen.”

Geralt focused on listening to her inhale, heard the slight crackling burn of the leaves, and waited as she held her breath for five counts before exhaling. When she held the stem of the strange plant to his lips a second time, he mimicked her. Moments after exhaling, a buzzing haze settled over him. This was nice. This was warm and soft and sleepy like the bath had been. He liked it. He had some more. He relaxed.

* * *

Half an hour or so later (it was hard to tell between the blindfold, the herbs, and the potion) a group of young acolytes formed a tight ring around the dazed Witcher and guided him carefully from the room. He was escorted down a short flight of steps and out the front door. He felt soft grass beneath his bare feet and the clean, fresh air outside his chamber reinvigorated him slightly. It wasn’t enough to completely clear the wool from between his ears, however, the women had made sure of that. 

There was a bonfire somewhere up ahead to the right; he could hear the crackling flames and smell the burning pine.  Geralt was led to the left. It was cooler there, and he appreciated being kept away from the heat of the fire in his overstimulated and foggy state. It would have scalded him. No, instead of joining the crowd near the fire, the Witcher was guided onto his knees in the grass. “Reach forward, Witcher.”

He did so, unflinching. One of the girls took his bound hands and pulled them forward until his knuckles brushed against a rough surface. “Wha-”

“It’s just to keep you in place until His Most Joyful arrives.”

They slipped a chain between his hands, around the knots holding them together, and tugged until he was secure. He felt around with his fingers and discovered that the short, thin chain around his bindings was firmly affixed to a knee-high stake in the ground. “Don’t try to pull it up and escape. You won’t get far in this state, anyway.”

The acolytes shook their heads and giggled when Geralt ignored the advice, pulling weakly at the pieces of wood and metal that kept him tethered and kneeling. 

_ Magic bindings, then.  _ A look of realization crossed the Witcher’s face.

“Ah yes,” Lavender grinned, joining the group of girls currently immobilizing Geralt. “It isn’t  _ just  _ the doctored bathwater keeping you docile, Witcher. The silk around your wrists is enchanted with a powerful subjugation spell. It was given to us by our Master and it is only ever used on this night, once each year.

“Hmm.” Geralt relaxed, letting himself kneel comfortably as he waited, foggy mind slipping easily into a light state of meditation. He listened to a group of musicians playing near the bonfire; familiar tunes that brought peace to the bespelled Witcher. A numb, prickly feeling was starting to itch at his fingertips when he heard the first shouts of excitement coming from a distant meadow. The drummer picked up her pace and the girl with the lute changed her tempo from a ballad to a jig. 

“Here he comes!” a bright female voice called, closer this time. Cheers rang out across the lawn, battering at Geralt’s hypersensitive hearing. His heartbeat had picked up speed, moving at the rate of an average human’s. Blood pounded loudly in his ears.  _ I’m never going to get to say goodbye to Jask- _

Before he could finish the morose thought, Geralt heard the shocking sound of his favorite bard’s rather distinctive laughter. From nearby. Very nearby. His magic-addled brain kicked into high gear and his blindfolded eyes darted from side to side, searching uselessly for any sign of his Jaskier. He couldn’t see for shit, so instead he focused on listening. 

“What kind of specimen have you found for me this year? Is he tall? Short? Peasant or noble?” Jaskier’s voice asked.

The wheels were turning frantically in Geralt’s scattered mind. He pulled the dots together at a sluggish pace while their conversation continued.

“We found a Witcher for you, Milord.”

“Really now, a Witcher?”

_ Geralt went to Kaer Morhen every winter. He’d been on his way there when he heard a child crying somewhere in the forest. Autumn was the worst time for wolf attacks, so of course he'd ventured into the trees to save them.  _

“Aye, Milord. Just as you taught us. We used a child to lure him to the edge of the woods and Rose cast  _ Yrden  _ to hold him. Hydrangea used  _ Axii  _ to make him cooperate and then Pansy drugged him with valerian and chamomile.”

“I’m very impressed with all of you. No doubt your harvest next year will be large, regardless. But I am curious; shall we see exactly which Witcher you managed to snare with your clever tricks and quick hands?”

_ Jaskier always disappeared in this direction in autumn and met him at a town not fifteen miles from here when spring arrived again.  _

Geralt focused his uncooperative brain on the small crowd of approaching bodies. The leader, probably the one with Jaskier’s voice, was walking almost  _ menacingly  _ towards the post where Geralt was tied.  _ Will he still kill me and fulfill the Ritual even if it’s me? Even if we’re friends?  _ The Witcher made one last vain attempt at escape, pulling rather violently at the strip of magical fabric that kept him teetering on the edge of consciousness. 

He dropped his head in shame as the group drew near, unable to see and yet somehow knowing that this really was _his_ Jaskier.  _ How did I not notice? The unusual amount of stamina to walk all day and then sing all night. The uncanny ability to find firewood or start a fire. His penchant for drama and love of human contact. His need to be the center of attention.  _

Jaskier was the deity that Geralt was being offered up to. Jaskier was His Most Joyful, the God of Happiness. 

_ Fuck.  _

“Oh my,” he heard the surprise in Jaskier’s unusually melodic voice.  _ Has he been toning down his natural Godly voice in order to travel with  _ me?  _ Is that why these women knew so much about Witchers and how to both incapacitate and remedy us? The Book they spoke of...was it Jaskier’s old notebook that had gone mysteriously missing all those years ago?  _ Oh. Geralt was well and truly fucked. “Have you really brought me the pretty pelt of the White Wolf?”

“Is he truly the White Wolf?” Rose gasped. “We only thought he had a similarly rare mutation.”

“There is only one Witcher alive with hair like  _ that,”  _ Jaskier asserted. The God stepped forward and crooked his pointer finger beneath Geralt’s chin, lifting it from his chest. He gently removed the blindfold and waited while the Witcher’s golden eyes adjusted to the light, or lack thereof. Jaskier gasped and smiled even wider at the sight of the kohl. “There is only one Witcher alive with eyes like molten amber. And just how pretty you’ve made those eyes with this makeup, ladies. I do love the way you’ve prepared him for me.”

Geralt was paralyzed. His mind was still heavily clouded with drugs and magic, and the realization that his traveling companion of nearly twelve years had been a  _ fucking deity  _ the entire time was really blowing whatever mind was left. Although it did explain how Jaskier could so easily manipulate innkeepers and aldermen into better prices for rooms or contracts. And he  _ looked  _ divine as he stood before Geralt in the light of the full moon; his brown hair longer than usual, his blue eyes sparkling with happiness and  _ something else  _ that the Witcher couldn’t put his tied finger on. 

“A man of few words, as always,” the god sighed in disappointment. The women around him sensed his displeasure and fell to the ground in supplication. 

“We are sorry to have failed you, Milord. We accept your punishment.”

“We thought you would be pleased with him, since you favor Witchers so much in your songs and stories.”

“Please do not force us to leave the temple!”

“Arise, children,” the bard chuckled fondly. “I’m not angry with you in the least. If anything, I am more than pleased with your offering. Consider the Ritual successful. As I’m sure you predicted when you sought out a Witcher as your tribute, your harvest will be plentiful next year and your village will remain safe from harm.”

“Thank you, Milord.”

“Now, would anyone mind fetching me two rather large goblets of mulled wine, please?”

One of the acolytes disappeared towards the fireside to fetch her Master a drink. After watching her figure retreat, Jaskier snapped his finger. A zip of magic flared down Geralt's spine as his bound hands were released from the chain. The Witcher rolled his shoulders back and shook some feeling back into his fingers while the bard/god debated what to do.

On one hand, it would be nice to do the things he’d always wanted to do to Geralt while he had the chance and the power. On the other hand, he didn’t want to hurt or misuse his friend in such a way. Most of the tributes offered up to him by his worshipers didn’t need the enchanted silk to partake in the first place. Willing men traveled all over the Continent trying desperately to find the small temple and be trussed up for his taking. Many of them swore allegiance to him and remained under his protection for the rest of their depressingly short lives. His power to grant Happiness was not uncommonly sought out.

To have his favorite human specimen yet, his Witcher, his  _ Geralt  _ pliant and nearly bare before him was shocking. Almost overwhelming. The development had certainly been unexpected and it put Jaskier in a real moral conundrum. The Witcher in question was still under the silk’s heavy spell and had crawled on his knees to bow before Jaskier. The sight nearly made the bard come in his pants. “Milord?” 

“They made you so pretty for me, darling,” Jaskier smiled approvingly. The girl who’d run off to find wine returned with two steaming goblets and the young god thanked her with a kiss on the cheek. “Now let’s have a seat by the fire and drink together, shall we?”

“Hands?” 

It seemed to Jaskier like the spell had overpowered his already monosyllabic love and reduced Geralt to barely comprehensible thoughts. It must have, because otherwise Geralt would be kicking and screaming for his freedom right now and definitely not  _ bowing to Jaskier like a fucking worshiper.  _

“Your hands will stay tied for now.”

“Yes, Milord.”

“You have done well,” Jaskier turned to his followers with a wide grin. “Now go and enjoy the feast. Drink and dance and spread the feeling of joy between yourselves. I’d like some time alone with my offering.”

There was a chorus brief of “milords” and then Jaskier was left standing alone with his charmed Witcher. “I cannot tell you how happily surprised I am to find that you are my tribute.”

“Killin’ me?”

There was a frightened little boy hiding within the gruff half-words of Geralt’s question and Jaskier's heart nearly melted. He reached out to caress the side of Geralt's face, lute-calloused fingertips sliding across one sharp cheekbone and then the other. The White Wolf tilted his head into the touch. “No, my sweet Geralt. I will not be killing you.”

“Don’t un’erstan? Sa’rifice?”

“Come with me and I will explain. I will not be releasing you yet, however.”

The Witcher merely nodded his assent and allowed himself to be led towards the welcoming heat of the bonfire. He’d been standing at enough of a distance that the cold night air had begun to  _ affect  _ him; Geralt’s nipples poked against the thin fabric of his chiton and gooseflesh rose on his arms. Jaskier took note but made no attempt to touch his captive without consent. 

“Here.” He situated one of the warm chalices in Geralt’s tied hands and took a seat on a low stone bench with plenty of room for the Witcher to sit next to him. Instead, Geralt automatically planted himself at Jaskier’s feet, legs tucked delicately beneath him and chalice held carefully on his lap.  _ So fucking beautiful. And oddly graceful. Dammit. _ At least Jaskier could use the spell to his advantage, to see what Geralt’s feelings for him really were. The Witcher couldn’t lie with the silk around his wrists and if he didn’t want Jaskier then, oh well, the god could find another offering somewhere else. The bard took a long sip of his drink before speaking again. “Do you love me when I am merely your traveling companion, Geralt of Rivia?”

“I love you all the time,” Geralt answered. It was as true as it was surprisingly cohesive. He didn’t slur any of his words when he spoke. “No matter who or what you are at the moment.”

“So you don’t mind being offered up to me like this for my festival?”

“Got a bath. Got to see you.”

“Those are the only good parts?” Jaskier questioned, heart sinking.

“Wha’s the Ritual, anyway?” Geralt asked, seeming to shrink in size as he knelt on the ground. He was scared. So scared. Of being rejected as an offering, as a friend, and as a lover. It wasn’t often that Witchers fell in love and Jaskier, well...he was perfect. And he was a  _ god?  _ But Geralt was used to rejection. Used to being turned away.

“It will all be explained shortly. Please tell me what you’re thinking about, Geralt. You look pained. Do you want me to loosen your ties or remove them?”

Much to Jaskier’s surprise, Geralt yanked his bound hands towards his chest protectively and shook his head. “No. Not yet. ‘M Scared you don’t want me. Scared you won’t come back in spring.”

“I’ll always come back to you, Geralt.”

“Hmmm.” The Witcher rested his head against Jaskier’s thigh and looked up at his new Master with pleading golden eyes. “Touch?”

“Sweet Witcher,” Jaskier acquiesced, thumbing absently at Geralt’s plump bottom lip. “If only I could keep you like this forever.”

“Okay.”

“Excuse me?”

“‘S warm,” Geralt shrugged, finally taking a long drink of wine from his goblet. “Can’t overthink. Have to tell the truth. ‘S nice.”

“Hmm. That makes sense; you do tend to hold everything inside. You don’t have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, you know.”

“Mhm.”

“So why do you?”

“Safe.” 

“What?”

“Jaskier. Must be safe.”

The flames of the bonfire suddenly leapt toward the stars, fueled by the bard/god’s happy realization. Cheers and shouts went up around the circle from the acolytes and priestesses. Geralt's watched the phenomenon with a growing sense of awe and wonder. “Oh, you really  _ do  _ love me back.”

“Yeah. I love you, Jaskier.”

“Then would you do me the honor of being my tribute tonight and allowing me to complete the Ritual?”

“Tha’s why ‘m here.” 

“Finish your wine, Witcher. The moon is nearly across the lake as it is.”

Jaskier watched the movement of Geralt’s throat as he swallowed back the dregs of his mulled wine. Between the heat and the grapes, the Witcher’s lips had gone slightly red. Like a noblewoman’s rouge. The impatient god wanted nothing more than to tip him back into the grass and take him where they sat, but that would be highly unprofessional. Instead, he left their cups on the bench, took Geralt by his tied hands, and led him towards the edge of the woods. 

It was time.

* * *

“Come here, my love,” Jaskier ordered, motioning for Geralt to move towards him. They were in a small, warm clearing far enough away from the festivities to have some privacy. This was a place where none of his worshipers were allowed to intrude. This was sacred ground meant only for the Ritual. The Witcher moved to stand directly in front of his bard. “Kneel.”

Geralt dropped back to his knees so quickly that it knocked a puff of breath from his lungs. Jaskier was in awe.  _ Always so eager to impress, Geralt. Always so willing to obey, unless it is dictated by fate. Then you run in the opposite direction.  _ The eager god spread his cloak out on the ground a few feet away and turned to Geralt, hands reaching out insistently, “I’m going to untie you.”

A primal, disappointed whine was ripped unbidden from low in the Witcher’s throat, surprising them both. Still, Geralt offered his bound hands to Jaskier like a good little sacrifice. As the bard picked the knots apart with his nimble fingers, he smiled sadly, “You feel even softer than I had imagined.”

“I’m not  _ soft, _ ” Geralt insisted, already sounding more lucid as the silk was unwrapped from his wrists. Deep red lines stood out against his pale skin where the cloth had rubbed it raw. Some places were so dark they’d likely bruise. Geralt relished the thought. Found himself  _ wanting  _ to be marked and claimed by Jaskier. The god gave the inside of each wrist a tender kiss as he unwrapped the last of the material from around them. “I still want you.”

“Hmm?” the god hummed.

“I still want you to take me as your offering,” Geralt stated. The bard could see in his golden eyes that he was earnest. “This village captured me fair and square, drugged me fair and square, and  _ enchanted my idiotic ass  _ fair and square. You should take what you are owed.”

“I only partake of the Ritual with partners who consent,” Jaskier argued. “And  _ not _ out of a sense of duty.”

“You’re a fucking  _ god,  _ Jaskier! Can’t you see into my mind or something? Can’t you read my true feelings? Didn’t I just tell you I  _ love  _ you?”

Jaskier hadn’t wanted to invade his friend’s privacy like that, but Geralt was right; he  _ could  _ have just read the Witcher’s feelings. He felt dirty doing it, which was the problem. It was bad enough to have omniscient god powers, but using them as tools for personal gain? The thought sent a disgusted shiver through him. He turned his gaze to Geralt, blue eyes searching gold for an honest answer.

“May I?”

“You know I’m bad with words, Jas. This would be so much easier.”

Jaskier probed into Geralt’s mind and found only  _ joy.  _ Joy that Jaskier, whose presence had changed Geralt’s life utterly and completely for the better from the second they met, was touching him so gently. Joy that he could belong to Jaskier as much as he wanted Jaskier to belong to him. Joy at being offered up like this, only for Jaskier, just for his  _ one true love.  _

The young god realized that the women of his Temple knew nothing of worship because Geralt’s mind was a true shrine, if he'd ever seen one. Jaskier was _everywhere._ The Witcher knew his human identity’s birthday, his favorite restaurants in every city, his favorite colors, the most comfortable style of doublet for every season, the way to fix broken lute strings; his darling companion’s mind was a veritable feast of information all about Jaskier himself. “Ah, my darling. You care _so_ _much._ ”

“Mhm.”

“You’ve loved me for some time now.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jaskier idly brushed against another of Geralt’s thoughts. “Oh, I see. You didn’t want to scare me off. Who could ever learn to love a Witcher, right? Well, my darling, I am a  _ god.  _ I have lived through several centuries and met many interesting people _.  _ Yet I have chosen a Witcher to be my one love.”

“Put the silk back on,” Geralt demanded suddenly. His eyes were looking everywhere but at Jaskier and his cheeks were pink from the effort of asking. 

“What?”

“Tie my hands with the silk again and take me like I’m meant to be taken. Complete the Ritual  _ correctly, Milord _ .”

“ _ Oh.”  _ The little rush of pleasure Jaskier felt at hearing those words was greater than anything he’d felt from any sacrifice before. 

“What?”

“Say it again.”

“Milord?”

“It sounds so different when you say it. So good.”

“Please bind my body and take it as tribute for a healthy crop in the coming year,  _ Milord _ ,” Geralt’s plea came out as a throaty grumble. His pupils were blown wide and his hair shimmered in the light of the full moon.  _ A full moon on Samhain and  _ Geralt  _ is my sacrifice? My true love? These Rites will be more powerful than any I have performed before. This temple is about to be overly blessed.  _

The god’s voice was deep and authoritative when he spoke, sending a shiver of naked  _ want  _ down Geralt’s spine: _ “So mote it be.” _

Jaskier was far more skilled at forming knots than the acolyte had been. The Witcher watched in growing fascination as his bard wound an intricate, criss-cross pattern between his forearms with the silk before pulling them tightly together and tying it off at his wrists. The magic of the enchantment swept through him again, blanketing him with a sense of  _ calm  _ and  _ happy. _ Jaskier tugged at the knots to make sure they were secure enough and saw his Witcher’s dick twitch against the tented chiton. He let some of his godly power seep into his words, pushing Geralt deeper into that haze of pleasurable magick. “Who do you serve, mortal?”

“I worship the God of Happiness. He is my only Master.”

“Well spoken.”

Geralt ducked his head respectfully. His knees had begun to ache from all the kneeling, but he found that it had become a pleasant sensation. It reminded him that he  _ belonged  _ to Jaskier. That only his Master could tell him what to do.  _ Stay on your knees to worship your love, the God of Happiness. You don’t have to protect him this time; he is in control. He won’t hurt you so stop worrying. _

“I am going to remove your clothing, darling.”

“Yes, Milord.”

Geralt raised his bound arms above his head and allowed Jaskier to pull the chiton loose from the tie at his shoulder. His powerful voice enveloped Geralt again, “I’m going to  _ wreck you,  _ my sweet Witcher.”

The Witcher’s body gave a rather violent shiver and Jaskier didn’t miss the gooseflesh that arose on his skin.  _ So he likes being talked to like that. Hmm, this could be rather fun.  _ “I’m going to make you beg twice. If you can last, then you shall be granted release as well as a prosperous harvest. If you cum too soon or disobey any of my commands, you shall be punished. I will never force you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with, but I will push your limits because you are, after all,  _ a sacrifice.” _

Geralt’s full-body shudder at the word ‘sacrifice’ gave him dead away. “You’re all mine to do with as I please, my Witcher. I haven’t even touched your dick and you already look so fucked out. Wait until I get my magick on you.”

“Noo-uhn,” Geralt groaned, writhing beneath the bard’s expert touch. Jaskier pushed Geralt onto his back against the cloak and raised his hands above his head. The god perused a few of Geralt’s favorite fantasies and decided on his next course of action. He grew a short vine up through the ground and used it to secure the Witcher’s hands in place above his head. He wrapped two more strong shoots around Geralt’s ankles, keeping him spread out and free for the tasting, the cloak shielding them both from the slightly damp grass. The Witcher released a shaky breath once he was fully restrained, “ _ Milord _ .”

Jaskier tapped a gentle  _ Axii  _ against Geralt’s forehead much like Rose had done earlier, settling his thoughts. Now it was only  _ Jaskier, Jaskier, Jaskier  _ on an endless, glorious cycle. The youthful god was removing his own clothes now, pulling a handful of vials from various pockets and setting them down around Geralt. He selected one and tipped it gently into the Witcher’s mouth; the taste was light and fruity. “Wha’s tha?”

“I’m sure that you’re about to feel it, what with your heightened Witcher senses and all. It’s nice to have a lover that responds so quickly and so well to the Ritual potions.”

“Oh, Jas,  _ p-please touch my cock.  _ What did you give me?”

“It’s an aphrodisiac,” Jaskier shrugged. “Which, with your mutations, might have some interesting side effects.”

Geralt could already feel the air moving against his skin in little currents as Jaskier spoke. It caressed his arms and bare legs, making him writhe against the restraints. His skin felt aflame with sensation.  _ Jaskier is in control. Jaskier will take good care of you. Just relax and let him take his fill.  _ The Witcher groaned wantonly and Jaskier smirked.  “I guess it’s time to play with my new toy.”

“Milord,” the Witcher gasped. “I am yours. All yours.  _ Touch me, please. _ ”

“Patience,” Jaskier murmured, running one of his fingers down Geralt’s bare chest at a torturously slow pace. The white-haired captive arched to meet the touch, panting and twisting like he was on fire.  _ Fuck, that feels good. So good. Need more. _

Jaskier unwrapped the chiton the rest of the way, peeling it back from Geralt’s hips like he was unfolding ancient, delicate paper. The teasing sensations were killing the oversensitive Witcher. “ _ Milord, please. Touch me, take me.” _

“Hush, pet,” he ordered, voice dripping with magick and power. “You are  _ my  _ gift and I will use you how I see fit.”

Jaskier leaned down and latched his mouth onto one of Geralt’s pert nipples, nibbling gently and flicking the sensitive bud with his tongue. “ _ Fuck. Uhn-I-ah!” _

“Such pretty sounds you make, my tribute,” Jaskier purred, switching over to lavish attention on the other side of Geralt’s chest. He moved his tongue nearly fast enough to vibrate, driving the Witcher mad with  _ how good  _ it felt but also how  _ not enough  _ it was. 

“ _ Ah! P-ple-” _

“Aw, what a mess. You can’t even get a whole word out. Tell me what you want.”

“Touch me, M-Milord. I’m begging you.”

Witchers never begged. Especially not Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf. Even when they’d first met and Geralt was facing death at the hands of Filavandrel he hadn’t begged.  _ Oh this was too good. Too delicious.  _ “Hmmm, I’ll think about it.”

_ “ _ Please. _ Mi-Milord,  _ please. _ ” _

Jaskier relented, trailing his lips down Geralt’s naked form to kiss every scar and scratch he could find. There were too many to count and the process of lavishing each with a kiss had his tribute teary-eyed and shaking by the end. Once he was finished teasing the rest of his body, Jaskier nosed at the base of Geralt’s rather impressive cock. “Always knew you’d be above average.” The Witcher could only whine in response. “So lovely. They cleaned you so well and made you so soft.”

“Yes, Milord. Behaved, Milord.”

“Did you now? Well, good behavior deserves a reward.”

Geralt’s breath caught in his throat at the feeling of Jaskier’s hot, wet mouth closing over the head of his cock. When the god pushed his lips even lower, the Witcher let out a high, shuddering keen. He couldn’t hold himself back. His ethereal lover had doused him with magick and laid him bare beneath the stars, held open to touch and toy with. There was nothing he could do but  _ feel  _ and  _ enjoy  _ and  _ worship.  _

“I’m going to ride you, Geralt.”

“Wha-?”

“Did you not hear me, mortal? I’m going to ride your cock until you beg for mercy twice. And then, if you’re a very good little Witcher, I’ll let you cum.”

“ _ Yes, Milord, _ ” Geralt breathed, his words beginning to slur again as Jaskier nibbled his thigh. “All yours. Take wh’t you wan’.”

“I  _ want  _ all of you. So I suppose that’s what I’ll have to take.”

Jaskier was ready, as he was every year. Another vial was plucked from the blanket and opened. Jaskier tipped the slick contents into his palm, rubbing his hands together to warm the oil slightly. With an excited exhale he reached forward to apply the substance along all of Geralt’s length. As soon as the slick hand closed around him, Geralt released a whimper so delectable it nearly had Jaskier coming in his pants. “Fuck, darling. You sound so good.”

“N’d you.”

“I know.”

Once he knew that Geralt was ready and willing, Jaskier straddled the Witcher’s hips. His grin bordered on villainous as he lowered himself down onto Geralt’s aching cock. The god had come prepared. He didn’t need to wait or adjust; this was a special occasion, after all. No, as Jaskier sank steadily and firmly over his sensitive length, the Witcher went still and silent. His eyes were glassy, rolled nearly all the way back into his head. He took short, shuddery breaths as his Master, his bard, his Jaskier _utterly wrecked him._ It was so tight, so hot, so _continuous._ He couldn’t form a coherent thought. In fact, “I’m gon-”  
And then the sensation was gone. Jaskier had raised his hips again, leaving only the head of Geralt’s dick still inside his body. “Not yet. Although I didn’t expect you to beg so quickly.”

Geralt could only release, choked-off moans in response, desperate to be touched. To be fucked. Jaskier lowered himself down again, slower this time, and let Geralt adjust to the sensations. Once the Witcher was settled, however, the god began to take what he was owed. The brunette man bounced at a quick pace, drawing sighs and grunts and moans from the man beneath him. “Who am I, Geralt?”

“ _ Milord.” _

“Try again.”

“J-Jaskier!”

“Yes!” 

“My love!”

“YES!”

Just as he knew Geralt was about to release, Jaskier stilled. The Witcher let out a wild cry, arms and legs jerking at the vines that held him pinned beneath the deity. _Have to touch. Need to cum._ Jaskier put his hand on Geralt’s abdomen and pushed down with his magick, forcing the Witcher to go completely motionless. His tribute’s amber eyes were wide with confusion and lust, Geralt unable to speak or make a noise. He deepened his voice, imbuing it with all the power he possibly could, “I’m going to take you now and I won’t be gentle until we’re both through, understand? I am going to make you _scream my name_ to the heavens above, Geralt of Rivia, so that all the other gods know _not_ _to_ _touch my_ _Witcher.”_

With that, the slender deity picked up his pace once more, slamming Geralt into him at the perfect angle for both. He fisted his dick in his hand, pumping in time with his own bouncing, drawing them both to their peak by clenching his muscles tightly around the Witcher’s  _ incredible  _ cock and hitting his own special bundle of nerves with each descent. It was beyond heavenly, really. 

Geralt, meanwhile, was thrumming with joy. His mind was clear of everything but  _ this moment.  _ His only purpose from this night onward would be to serve his Jaskier however possible. He would fight every monster and save every princess. He would let the villagers throw rocks at him and call him names. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. He was loved by and belonged to a  _ fucking god.  _ As the heat of release coiled tightly within him, Geralt let out a whimpered prayer, “Jaskier, Milord,  _ I’m yours!”  _

“Come for me,” Jaskier ordered, voice thick with power and demand. There was nothing else the Witcher could do but come, shrieking his Master’s name to the starlit sky above, body arched, eyes unseeing from the incredible pleasure of it all. Jaskier responded in kind, the sight of  _ his  _ Geralt caught up in so much joy leading him to spill over his own hand and over Geralt’s chest and stomach. 

Once their breathing slowed and the shock of their climaxes completely subsided, Jaskier released the Witcher from his vines. He pulled himself off the Witcher’s mostly flaccid cock, earning a whine from the other man. Sore as he surely was, Geralt hauled himself back to a kneeling position, bound hands resting on the tops of his thighs and head bowed respectfully. “I don’t want this to end. Don’t wanna go back.”

“Go back?”

“Read it.”

Jaskier understood. He closed his eyes and filtered through the Witcher’s tangled thoughts.  _ I don’t want to go back to being Witcher-and-bard. I don’t want to lose this side of you. I don’t want you to leave me alone on the Path again, not without your music and your Happiness. I know it is too much to ask of a god, an immortal being who will long outlive me, but please let me die in your service. Let me have one lifetime at your side, as your adoring devotee. I will worship you however you like. However you need. Jaskier! I love you. _

A single tear fell from the god’s eye, landing in the grass and blooming into a cornflower. He picked the small blossom and placed it behind Geralt’s ear. “You don’t need to worry, darling. I have no intention of leaving you, now or ever.” Jaskier reached for Geralt’s still-tied hands and the Witcher held them up reluctantly. He began to pick apart the knots again, slowly. “What if I agree to bring this with us on our travels?” 

The Witcher nodded. “Hmm.”

“You can let yourself be soft with me, you know.”

“Hmm?”

“If you ever feel too worked up or too stressed from your Witchering, you can ask me to use this. I’ll just hold you if you need, or we can do  _ this  _ type of thing again. We can do whatever you’d like, my love,” Jaskier explained, finally pulling the last of the soft material free of Geralt’s skin. “I am more than happy to do that for you.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to do something like this for me,” the Witcher sighed. “It’s already too much to ask you along on the Path.”

“You’re a fool if you think I don’t enjoy it,” the bard teased. “After twelve years of you pushing me around and yelling at me, it felt rather good to be in charge of you for a minute.”

“All that time you could have just used your  _ scary voice  _ on me?” Geralt queried. “And I would have done as you said?”

Jaskier nodded.

“Why didn’t you?”

The bard sputtered indignantly, crossing his arms over his bare chest. “Because I’m not an  _ ass,  _ Geralt. I’m a  _ god.  _ I have  _ morals  _ and I like to let you have  _ free will.”  _

The Witcher raised one knee to his chest, resting his chin atop it to gaze at Jaskier. “Is that why people have been paying me better since you showed up? And why I can get a room at an inn for less than half my purse?”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I am a very talented bard.”

“Hmm,” Geralt smiled, pulling the slender god against his chest. “Care for a dip in the river to clean off?”

“Care to stay by my side indefinitely and be my sexy immortal Witcher consort?”

“What?”

“We can talk about it later. Let’s go clean up." Jaskier pulled on his smalls and wrapped Geralt very gently in his blue cloak. "I'll have Lavender bring me your clothes and armor in the morning."

“Hmm, thank you. Are you going to bless the temple with a good harvest next year? Was I a decent sacrifice?”

“They will be terribly blessed, yes. My magick was more than satisfied.”

“Will you come back and do this again next year with some other stranger?” Geralt asked, very much not liking the thought of his newfound lover seeking pleasure with someone else. Jaskier avoided eye contact, shrugging in overacted apathy.

“That depends. Are you going to get captured again?”

“Hmm. I usually take the same path to get to Kaer Morhen. I’m sure if any children needed rescuing from wolves I’d stop to save them.”

Jaskier smiled to himself, feeling suddenly more powerful than he ever had before.  _ Is this what it’s like,  _ he wondered,  _ when the God of Happiness is finally happy? _

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment fam, I'm dying for some validation cause idk if this smut is any good.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Divine Reciprocity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25938937) by [allllllllthethings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allllllllthethings/pseuds/allllllllthethings)




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